I.

Descended of an ancient line, That long the Tuscan sceptre swayed, Make haste to meet the generous wine, Whose piercing is for thee delayed: The rosy wreath is ready made, And artful hands prepare The fragrant Syrian oil, that shall perfume thy hair.

When the wine sparkles from afar, And the well-natured friend cries, "Come away!" Make haste, and leave thy business and thy care, No mortal interest can be worth thy stay.